


oh what a christmas to have the blues

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coulson and Daisy have the blues, Drinking, F/M, Hand Jobs, I dunno if this really counts as fluff but, Melancholy, Tumblr Prompts, Vaginal Fingering, impromptu fluff fest, mention of Coulson/Rosalind, mention of Lincoln/Daisy, prompt: Coulson and Daisy talk about their terrible Christmasses, prompt: dancing without music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 15:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5295728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bottle of bourbon is almost empty, and Coulson knows they're both quietly, maudlinly drunk, but it feels appropriate for a Christmas like this. Daisy's slid slowly down from his shoulder until she's lying in his lap, and she's drinking straight from the bottle now. He's holding his breath, trying not to hope, but Daisy in his lap, it's making him wonder if she will let him hold on to her after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh what a christmas to have the blues

Daisy is in his office.

Coulson doesn't  _jump_ , but he's definitely startled. Daisy hasn't been in his office for months. But she's sitting in his desk chair, looking lost in thought, and maybe he gazes at her just a little too long before clearing his throat.

She does jump, looks up at him wide-eyed before breathing out a sigh.

"Hey," she says. "Sorry. I. I came in to do some work on these files. I guess I kind of lost track of time." She gets up as if she's about to leave, and Coulson can't handle it, can't watch her go.

"Daisy," he says. "It's fine. It's  _Christmas_. Why are you working." She shrugs, twists her mouth a little.

"Didn't have much else to do." Daisy looks sad, very briefly, and then covers it with a carefully easy smile, another shrug. "It's not like we're doing anything for Christmas, right? I mean, it doesn't really feel like anyone in the team has much Christmas spirit this year. Not with everything that's happening."

"I guess," Coulson agrees. She's not wrong, and it's not that he's ever been hugely about Christmas, anyway, but it still feels melancholy. He wishes he could do something to make it a little better. Before he can lose his nerve, he finds himself blurting out, "uh, do you want a drink? We could... have one."

"Sure," Daisy says casually, settles on his couch, watches as he pours them both a bourbon. He passes her one, sits down at the other end of the couch. Daisy looks tired, shadows under her eyes, and Coulson can't help but worry about her.

"Happy Christmas," he tells her, clinks her glass, takes a sip. She takes a long swallow, sighs again, leans back.

"Well," she says wryly, "it's not turkey and mashed potato and pecan pie, but I guess it's something."

"You like pecan? I was always more into apple."

"Oh, you would be," Daisy smirks, and then pauses. "Hey, I have an idea. I'll be right back." She sets down her drink, jumps up and dashes out, and Coulson blinks, not sure where she's gone or what she's doing.

She comes back a few minutes later carrying a bottle of syrup and a spray can of whipped cream and looking extremely smug.

"What," Coulson says. 

"Butter pecan syrup!" Daisy says, as if it should be obvious. "Pecan syrup and bourbon and whipped cream? It's practically pie in a glass."

"You're dangerous," Coulson tells her. "You're mad with your own power."

"Whatever," Daisy shrugs, drizzles syrup into her glass and swirls it to mix with the bourbon. She takes a sip, grins, drinks again and then sprays a swirl of whipped cream directly into her mouth. Coulson chokes on his bourbon. "You okay?" Daisy asks with either faux or real innocence, swiping cream off her lower lip with her thumb, and he coughs, nods, feels himself blush furiously.

"Why does the kitchen even stock this?" he asks, trying to get back on firmer ground.

"Pancakes," she answers as if it should be obvious. "I'm pretty sure Jemma's trying to make Will and Fitz bond over pancakes, given it's basically the only thing they have in common besides her."

"Losing battle," Coulson agrees a little glumly, because everyone's noticed the friction between Will and Fitz. It's awkward, to say the least. Daisy nods, tops up her drink and pours more bourbon into his glass too. He hadn't even realized it was almost empty.

 

 

"Lincoln and I broke up," Daisy says abruptly, after another silence. They're both drinking fast, melancholy despite Daisy's attempts at levity, and in the quiet of the office, Coulson feels something begin to unwind between them.

"Yeah," Coulson says, "I kind of ... noticed, given how he requested sudden permission to transfer permanently to the Cocoon. You want to talk about what happened there?"

"He said I was a monster," Daisy murmurs, throws back her bourbon and pours another. "That I should just take the vaccine. We all should." Coulson's silent, at that, because he doesn't know what to say that won't sound alternately trite or furious. "Anyway," she says, swings her feet up onto the couch and shifts so she's leaning against his shoulder. "Seems like we're both unlucky in love, huh."

Coulson laughs a little bitterly. "What Price and I had, it wasn't..." he tells her, stares into his own glass, and Daisy rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, okay, Phil, you don't have to keep up with that line. It's okay to admit you have feelings."

"She said I didn't," Coulson admits, feels the sting of it. "Said I had no emotions, was incapable of letting anyone else in."

"Oh, Phil," Daisy breathes, and her voice is so soft, so sympathetic that it stings all the harder. "She did a number on you, huh."

"I think a lot of things have been doing a number on me," he agrees, watches Daisy press the rim of her glass against her lips. "You think we're still doing the right thing, here?"

"Of course we are," Daisy says immediately. "Coulson, of course we are. We're agents of SHIELD. That's not going to change. We're doing the best we can with a very bad hand, right now. We've just got to hold on."

"Okay," Coulson says, and thinks, a little drunk,  _let me hold on to you, Daisy_. She reaches out for the syrup, tops her glass up, drinks thoughtfully for a moment and then sighs again, settles her head onto his shoulder.

"I hate Christmas," she tells him quietly. "I've never had a good one. Christmas at St Agnes meant, like, a set of children's psalms and a serve of pudding even when it wasn't a Sunday, and Christmas at foster homes always meant too little money and too much hope. I thought maybe, once I met my mom and dad, maybe we could have a Christmas together. At Afterlife, or something."

"I'm sorry," he says, feeling inadequate, lightly touches her hand. "My mom died in September. The first Christmas after, that was..."

" _Hard_ ," Daisy whispers, slides her fingers into his and grips his hand tightly. "Yeah, Phil. It's hard."

 

 

The bottle of bourbon is almost empty, and Coulson knows they're both quietly, maudlinly drunk, but it feels appropriate for a Christmas like this. Daisy's slid slowly down from his shoulder until she's lying in his lap, and she's drinking straight from the bottle now. He's holding his breath, trying not to hope, but Daisy in his lap, it's making him wonder if she will let him hold on to her after all. 

"I bet you make great Christmas dinners," she jokes. "Like, Phil, I bet you're the kind of person who makes cranberry sauce from scratch."

"What other way is there?" he asks lightly. "It's the cognac and orange zest that really make it." Daisy smiles, looks up and smiles wider at whatever look is on his face, reaches up and lightly touches his mouth.

"That's the Phil Coulson food snob I know and adore," she tells him. "You're still missing out on the pecan bourbon, though."

"Hmm," Coulson says against her fingers. "That's okay with me." Daisy lets her hand fall away, closes her eyes for a moment.

"Oh," she says, "I found a record."

"And you want to play it  _now_?" he asks, because Daisy is warm against him, and he doesn't really want her to get up. She does, though, sits up and then stands a little unsteadily, walks over to his record player and takes something out of its sleeve, puts it down and sets the needle delicately down into the grooves.

"Charles Brown," Coulson recognizes as the beginning notes play. "1960."

"My baby's gone, I have no friends," Daisy sings softly, sways to the music. "You want to come dance with me, Phil?"

It's too, too easy to say yes.

Daisy steps into his space, puts her hands on his shoulders and leans in. The music is slow, easy blues, and even though they're clumsily drunk, they move together smoothly. Coulson wraps his arms around her waist, wonders if she can feel his vibrations, his heart beating fast. Her cheek's pressed to his shoulder, her lips close to his throat.

 _This is Christmas, yes Christmas my dear. The time of year to be with the one you love_ , Charles Brown sings, and Coulson feels Daisy sigh, a puff of warm breath against his skin, and without thinking he pulls her in even closer, sways them around in a circle.

The record ends with a hiss, and they keep dancing in the silence. Something feels like it's building between them, both sudden and slow. Daisy's fingertips are warm against the back of his neck.

"Coulson," she whispers. "Happy Christmas," and Coulson turns his head, kisses her as slow and easy as it always should have been.

He can taste the bourbon on her breath, hints of sweet syrup, and she moans into the kiss, presses into it harder immediately, pulls him in with desperate hands. "God," she says, kisses him again, drags her teeth against his lip. "Thank god, Coulson, I didn't-"

" _You_ didn't-" he says, "fuck, Daisy, I didn't-"

"Oh," Daisy whispers, "oh, Phil, we're idiots."

They are. They are idiots. But with Daisy's mouth on his, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt, Coulson can't bring himself to mull over it as much as he might have.

 

 

They make it back to the couch, and Daisy settles herself into his lap, straddling his thighs and grinding down into him in a way that's all heat and want and glorious friction.

"Fuck," he says again thickly, tugs her sweatshirt off, and underneath she's wearing a tank top, something he's seen a hundred times before. It's beautiful. She's beautiful. "Daisy-" he says, and she pushes him back into the couch, kisses him breathless as she strips off his shirt and her tank top and bra. Daisy's naked skin against his makes Coulson feel like he's buzzing, like he's full of a power he can't quite control, and he wonders, dizzily, if this is what she feels all the time. _  
_

"You with me?" she asks, drawing back a little, and he drags in a breath, nods, slides his palm down her spine.

"I'm good," he says, "I just... Can we wait? Until the morning?" He doesn't quite know how to phrase it, but having sex with Daisy, he feels like he shouldn't be drunk for it. Like it's a moment he needs to prepare for, somehow.

"Yeah," Daisy tells him, "yeah, Phil, of course," and this time when she kisses him it's softer, gentler, in a way that feels like his heart is expanding a hundred times over.

"I can still..." he murmurs into her mouth. "If you'd like."

"I'd like," Daisy agrees, "yes, I'd definitely like," and that's enough for him to pull away from her kiss, lean down a little, suck one of her nipples into his mouth. She arches into it, makes a breathy noise that turns into a loud moan when he pinches her other nipple between his fingers. "Oh," she says, "oh, god, like that," and Coulson closes his eyes, breathes her in. She wriggles a little, grinds down again, and Coulson hesitates, sets his robot hand against her hip. "It's fine," she tells him, "touch me, please, I want you to," and he unbidden remembers Rosalind's averted eyes, the way she'd shied away from it. This newest model, he can feel the warmth of Daisy's skin as he skims his fingers down her hip, can absolutely feel the damp heat between her legs even through her leggings.

"Do you..." Coulson asks, kisses his way back up her chest and throat. 

"Phil," Daisy says, her voice husky. "I just want you in me, okay, I just want to ride your fingers until I come. Trust me when I say it will  _not take much_." That's enough for him; he slides his right hand into her waistband, pulls her leggings down just enough that he can press his fingers in against her slick wetness. Daisy cries out as soon as he touches her, kisses him hard, and when he pushes two fingers into her, pushes his palm against her clit, she cries out again, the noise muffled against his mouth.

"God, Daisy, you're so _wet_ ," he marvels, pushes his fingers in deeper, crooks them to hit her G-spot, and she starts to roll her hips against him, her breath coming in hitching, stuttering gasps.

"Yeah, well, I,  _fuck_ ," she hisses. "I've been thinking about this for a long time, okay, oh  _god_ right there, don't you fucking _dare_ stop." He doesn't, couldn't, instead pushes a third finger in and watches the way Daisy's eyes dilate. She's so tight around his fingers that he's almost painfully hard, especially when she rocks into it harder, rubs friction against his cock through his jeans. He thinks he might actually come without her touching him at all.

"Look at you," he says, soft and amazed. "God, Daisy, I love you," and he'd regret it slipping out if it didn't apparently push her straight over the edge, because her cheeks flush and she shudders into an orgasm that makes the air around them shimmer like a thunderstorm about to break, their empty glasses humming with vibrations. 

"Fuuuuuuck," she gets out when she can speak, and Coulson smiles, pulls his fingers gently out of her, licks them clean. Daisy's eyes go dark and wide with desire; she drags her tongue along her lower lip, catches her lip with her teeth, watches him for a long moment and then takes his wrist, pulls his fingers against her own mouth.

"Oh god," he manages when she sucks his fingers in. Her mouth's hot and her gaze is still locked with his; he feels caught in it. She fumbles, one-handed, with his fly, reaches in and strokes her fingertips lightly up his cock through the cotton of his underwear, pulls his fingers a little deeper into her throat. "Oh  _god_ ," he says again, makes a strangled noise when she tugs his cock out of his fly, wraps her fingers around it and begins to stroke. Her fingers are slick and it's slow and easy, the way everything has been tonight, and Coulson knows,  _knows_ he's not going to last.

When he comes, it feels like it's a moment that lasts a million years and a fraction of a second. He's wrung out, after, suddenly exhausted, and Daisy eases him through it, kisses his jaw, runs her fingers lightly through his hair.

"Bedtime?" she asks, and he nods.

"Would you-" he says, "will you- will you sleep in my bed?" and Daisy smiles.

"Phil," she tells him, "I think I'd like to sleep in your bed for a long, long time."

 

 

When he wakes up, it's to Daisy sprawled across him, snoring very lightly against his shoulder. He strokes her hair where it's spread out in a wavy halo, lets himself card his fingers gently through it. Daisy's thigh is flung up over his hip, her fingers pressed firm against his ribs like she's holding onto him even in her sleep.

"G'morning," she mutters sleepily after a few minutes. "Why're you awake? It's Christmas. Sleep in. Live a little." 

"I'm enjoying the moment," Coulson tells her. "It's not every morning I wake up with you."

"It will be," Daisy says, stretches out and presses into him a little more. "I mean, if that's okay."

"Yeah," Coulson murmurs. "Yeah, of course that's okay. That's more than okay."

"Good," Daisy huffs, pulls him in and wraps herself around him, drags her bare skin against his in a long, slow tease. "Because that's all I want for Christmas. After we _go back to sleep_ for another hour."

It's easy to dance. It's easy to kiss her. It's easy to fall asleep in her arms. And when they wake up, and Coulson slides into Daisy with her legs wrapped around his waist and his hands held tightly in hers, that'll be easy, too, the best kind of easy. It's as easy as loving her, as easy as realizing they've loved each other for a long, long time.

Coulson thinks, sleepy and warm and impossibly content, that it's the best Christmas either of them have ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr fluff prompt: Skoulson Christmas, and dancing without music.
> 
> Title from Charles Brown 'Please Come Home For Christmas' (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itdNoGtPQ3I). The idea of Phil and Daisy slow-dancing to this is everything to me.


End file.
